


The Rick Astley Fic

by efficaceous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Rick-Rolling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/efficaceous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dude, I don't know. I was driving and this came on, and it came into my head, and here we are. Some fluffy nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rick Astley Fic

The first hint was an accident. Clint had been in a perch for going on 7 hours and the non stop chatter was his way of passing the time.

 

“Next time that dick Pressler at A.R.M.O.R. sends me that stupid goat pic, I’m gonna rickroll his ass so hard…”

 

“Rick-roll?” Coulson, for once, sounded uncomprehending.

 

“Yeah, you know, like when you send someone a link, but it’s not to what they think, it’s to that song?”

 

Silence on the comm.

 

“Do I need to sing it for you, Sir? Have you been waiting all this time for me to serenade you from afar?”

 

“That won’t be necessary, Barton. Eyes on the target, he just sent a text.”

* * *

 

But it didn’t end there. It wasn’t quite the next after action report. It started with a sticky note on Coulson’s desk on morning. (The office had definitely been locked overnight, Phil was certain.)

“Coulson, I know  we’re no strangers , but can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Phil read the note, considered, then crumpled it and threw in the trash. No reason to encourage the nonsense that spewed perpetually from Barton’s brain.

 

* * *

 

The next piece showed up in Barton’s medical file, after he somehow managed to burn the back of his neck on an electric fence.

Under “Cause of Injury” Barton had written:  To love . From Hawkeye.

The sheet went into Clint’s file, along with the other million and one pieces of paper that constitute a spy’s entirety.

* * *

  


Phil would have missed the third segment, if it hadn’t been written in lipstick on his laptop screen.

You know the rules and so do I. No coffee? How about a beer?  >>>\------>

Windex took the lipstick right off.

* * *

  


Eventually, the entire lyrics to Rick Astley’s ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ passed through Coulson’s hands, all courtesy of Clint. Often accompanied with requests for dates, compliments on  Phil’s pocket square of the day, and once, memorably, a blurry stick figure sketch of a man getting a blowjob.  Phil wasn’t sure which of the two of them was the recipient and which the giver. He’d taken a picture of that one on his phone, actually. For reference, of course.

* * *

 

Clint was in the med bay, again. His least favorite place on the base. Worse still, he couldn’t just skip out and head for a vent because his leg, his **goddamn** leg! Was broken. Like, a lot. And there were simply herds of nurses and doctors and probably candlestick makers wandering in and out and checking machines that kept beeping and poking him with pointy things and ugh. This was why he hated medical.

 

Suddenly it was like the tide had broken and all the people just magically flooded out of the room. The lack of noise washed over him and Clint closed his eyes to savor it.

* * *

 

When he finally opened his eyes, five minutes or five hours later, Coulson was sitting beside his bed in a chair that had not been there previously.  Currently engrossed in a crossword puzzle, Coulson sat, his tie loosened and his cuffs rolled up, humming quietly.

 

Clint just stared at him. “Uh… Sir?”

 

“Yes Barton?” Coulson didn’t even look up as he replied, voice as easy as if they were in a coffee shop.

 

“Why am I not in surgery?” Confusion had filled Clint up, thinking he’d been operated on without his awareness, one of his greatest secret fears.

 

“Nothing has happened yet. You seemed like you needed a break. Your leg will be fine, as long as they get to it within the next 29 minutes. I was going to give you 15 more minutes before waking you. You looked … rough.” At that, Coulson did glance at Clint, meeting his gaze quickly before tucking the folded crossword under one arm.  Clint just boggled at him; clearly the meds they were pumping him with were powerful.

 

“Better get on with it. I’ll see you after surgery.” Phil stood fluidly and sauntered out, again humming. The tune was familiar.

 

The room refilled as quickly as it had emptied.

* * *

 

As the tech plunged the needle into Clint’s IV to knock him out, it came to him.

_The fucker! He was humming N…._

* * *

  


As Clint woke up from the anesthesia, he saw a white mug on the bedside stand. It had one of those QR codes on it, and from the smell, contained the ambrosia of the gods, otherwise known as coffee.

 

As soon as he was able to get his hands on a phone (read: pickpocket an orderly), Clint scanned the mug. He had an idea of what would happen, but then a video filled the phone’s entire screen.

A skinny ginger man grabbed a mic stand and a drum line kicked in. Tears filled Clint’s eyes. He was so… damn… proud of Coulson!

 

He watched the video all the way through, but instead of fading to black at the end, a messy photo was displayed. It had been taken on a lower quality phone camera, but the image was familiar. Intimately. Clint groaned. He’d been drunk when he drew that, and had kind of hoped Coulson had missed, destroyed, or just forgotten that one.

Words popped up on the screen. “Let’s start with coffee, ok?” Followed by the SHIELD logo.

  
“Ok,” Clint whispered to himself. “Ok.”

 

_/fin_


End file.
